


Until You

by Make_It_Worse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Background Reed900 for a hot second, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Broken Bones, Caring Hank Anderson (Detroit: Become Human), Cock Rings, Consensual Somnophilia, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Constipation, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Feral Hank Anderson, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Freckles, Good Dog Sumo (Detroit: Become Human), Hank - and I cannot emphasize this enough - BIG, Hank Anderson Has a Big Dick, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, Hank eats ass, Heartbeats, Hickeys, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injury, Injury Recovery, It is so big you guys, Love Confessions, M/M, Mountains, Murphy's Law, Mutual Pining, No I will not be accepting criticism for these out of control tags, Orgasm Delay, Prostate Massage, Protective Hank Anderson, Rating Change, Rimming, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Teasing, Viagra, Yes that trope, almost anyway, mentioned home invasion, mountain men in love, only chapter 2 is explicit, showering together, sleepy blow job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21863014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: “It’s broken,” Hank says quietly. His breath curls out in a foggy, crystalline mist in the scant space between them.Connor scowls, clutching his right wrist in agony, “No shit.” His finger is bent backward, sticking straight up to the sky while the rest lay flat, tense, and trembling.Hank’s eyes flick up to Connor’s pained face, but he lets the comment slide. He knows how bad this injury feels, especially given the frigid temperature. The damage won’t be permanent if they act quickly, but it’s going to hurt like hell given his limited medical equipment.__Connor and Hank work as guides, leading adventure seekers up dangerous mountain slopes. It's easy for Hank to ignore the simmering tension between them until a string of bad luck forces him to confront his feelings.Let me repeat: There Was Only One Bed *Elmo on fire gif*
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 44
Kudos: 369





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s broken,” Hank says quietly. His breath curls out in a foggy, crystalline mist in the scant space between them.
> 
> Connor scowls, clutching his right wrist in agony, “No shit.” His finger is bent backward, sticking straight up to the sky while the rest lay flat, tense, and trembling. 
> 
> Hank’s eyes flick up to Connor’s pained face, but he lets the comment slide. He knows how bad this injury feels, especially given the frigid temperature. The damage won’t be permanent if they act quickly, but it’s going to hurt like hell given his limited medical equipment.
> 
> __
> 
> Connor and Hank work as guides, leading adventure seekers up dangerous mountain slopes. It's easy for Hank to ignore the simmering tension between them until a string of bad luck forces him to confront his feelings.
> 
> Let me repeat: There Was Only One Bed *Elmo on fire gif*

“It’s broken,” Hank says quietly. His breath curls out in a foggy, crystalline mist in the scant space between them.

Connor scowls, clutching his right wrist in agony, “No shit.” His finger is bent backward, sticking straight up to the sky while the rest lay flat, tense, and trembling.

Hank’s eyes flick up to Connor’s pained face, but he lets the comment slide. He knows how bad this injury feels, especially given the frigid temperature. The damage won’t be permanent if they act quickly, but it’s going to hurt like hell given his limited medical equipment.

“We need to place it,” Hank tries to speak gently, but Connor flinches away from him as if Hank reached out to touch the mangled digit. “Easy, easy.” Hank’s fingers grip higher up on Connor’s forearm, holding him in place without risking further damaging his broken finger.

“Don’t touch it!” Connor’s voice comes out high and panicked. There’s no way he’s going to be able to place it correctly with Connor tense and on the alert. He looks poised to flee into the snowy woods if he has to. Hank doesn’t blame him. He did the same thing to his pinky the winter before.

Hank shushes him, examining the unnatural bend. Despite the frozen air, swelling is already setting in around the joint. He’s running out of time.

Forcing himself to be casual, Hank peels off his own gloves, probing at Connor’s wrist, working higher up his arm, “Making sure nothing else is broken.” Connor nods in answer, the motion tight with pain. He relaxes in fractions the further Hank goes up his arm, putting distance between Hank’s hand and Connor’s throbbing finger.

A part of Connor knows Hank is right. If they don’t act now, his finger will never bend properly again. Hell, it may still be too far gone to heal completely, but waiting could mean the difference between partial functionality and none at all. He grimaces and Hank can all but see Connor work through his options.

“What were you thinking?” Hank admonishes lightly, keeping his frown on the wounded hand.

Connor bristles, “I was _thinking_ that we’re going to freeze to death on this stupid fucking mountain if we didn’t haul in enough god damn wood, you patronizing a—aH _H_ _H_!”

Connor’s angry vitriol transforms into a tortured scream as his world reduces to the brutalized knuckle on his middle finger. Hank releases his finger, no longer bent, and pulls him hard to his chest. They still need to splint it and bandage it, but it can wait a little longer now that they had dealt with the largest hurdle.

Hank had been hesitant taking Connor on at first. He was green bordering on reckless. It was his first real winter up on the mountains, but what he lacked in experience, he made up for with enthusiasm. His passion for the work was infectious and Hank had found his own interest in the job rekindling over those first few weeks.

It didn’t hurt that the kid was pretty to look at. He seemed to do an awful lot of looking himself. At first, Hank assumed he was imagining it. Sure, he had been something to ogle once upon a time, but those days were long behind him. He still swung an ax with ease and his muscles had yet to fail him, but age had packed on some padding. He didn’t exactly have a lot of young, pretty things beating down his door.

Until Connor.

He’d almost turned him down.

“I don’t want help and you don’t have any practical experience. Go home, kid.” He grimaces at the memory of his abrupt treatment of Connor. Still, Connor was persistent.

“People die trying to climb this mountain every year, all year round. You’re just one man. You can’t possibly do it all alone.” Hank had rankled hard at the implication that he was failing in some way. Connor had smirked at him and he realized he’d played straight into the kid’s hands.

Hank ran his palm over his face, “Fine, but you get the shitty cot.” Connor had beamed at him as if the prospect of sleeping three inches off the ground with crap back support was his dream come true. Hank gave him a week at most before he turned tail back for the creature comforts of the city.

Connor had surprised him in more ways than one. For starters, he rarely complained about the weather conditions. The cabin didn’t have central air and summers, even this high up, could become unbearably hot. Instead of whining about it, Connor had disappeared for the better part of a day, returning badly scratched and grinning.

“I found a lake. It’s shaded.” Hank hadn’t needed telling twice. They spent most of their free time there in August. It had been the first time Hank couldn’t deny the heated way Connor looked at him. He’d cleared his throat and looked away, chalking it up to cabin fever. Other than the people that hired them to help them ascend to the peak of the mountain, Connor only saw Hank regularly. It would pass, Hank had assured himself.

Except it hadn’t. Connor didn’t push. He wasn’t a stupid man; he could read Hank’s body language well enough. It didn’t stop him from looking, though. Hank had stolen a few peeks himself when Connor’s back was turned.

When not guiding people up questionable mountain slopes, they spent their time preparing for winter and maintaining the trails. Connor made most of the trips into town. Hank had grown used to solitude and didn’t care much for the rich, hoity-toity people who lived at the base of his mountain.

Just a few days prior, Connor’s mud-splattered Jeep had made its final journey for the season. The clouds loomed heavy and pregnant, ready to dump their first snowfall of the season.

He hopped down, unloading supplies, “We should be set, now. We have enough food in the iceboxes and hopefully we get lucky with some of the traps.”

“Do you even know how to prepare a rabbit, city boy?” Hank had queried, poking fun. Connor had answered with a rude gesture of his hand and a small smile on his lips.

It hadn’t been all idyllic scenery and friendly banter to this point, though. There had been brutal shouting matches, both men toe-to-toe and red in the face. Hank was honestly a little surprised Connor had tried to buck up to him. He could swat the kid flat in seconds if he’d been of a mind to. The argument had been a stupid one, but with a tendril of something important.

“You think you know everything,” Connor had bellowed into his face. Hank had risen to his full height, but it did nothing to cow Connor.

“That’s rich coming from you. You charge ahead without thinking. You’re going to get yourself _killed_ if you don’t start using your brain. You get in a fight with this mountain? You _lose_. Every time.”

“This _mountain_ ,” Connor had hissed, “isn’t the stubborn slab of rock I’m fighting with.”

It took Hank three blinks to realize Connor was talking about him. He’d dropped his mouth open to growl something mean and angry, but Connor beat him to the punch.

“ _You_ always decide. You never give me a chance. You don’t _listen_.” Connor’s fists were clenched in frustration as he tried to put words to the real problem, “If I’m such a nuisance, then say so. I’ll leave and you’ll never have to see me again.”

Hank’s lungs had froze and his mind had whispered a horrified _No_. For the first time, he’d allowed himself to acknowledge he enjoys Connor’s company rather than just tolerating it. The fight drained out of him and he’d collapsed back into his chair, rubbing at his nose, “You’re not a nuisance. I don’t want you to go.”

“Then stop treating me like a child,” Connor’s voice was firm and unyielding. On some level, Hank knew he was right. He was handling Connor with kid gloves even after he’d proven he was more than capable.

He sighed, “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Connor had looked a little taken aback by that admission and some of the ice had melted from his stance. He made an aborted gesture with his hand as if he wanted to grip Hank’s shoulder.

He settled on reaching for the poker and prodding the fire, “I’ll be careful. Just give me a chance.”

The first time Connor took a group up the mountain alone, Hank hadn’t been able to sleep. He dreamed of avalanches despite the limited snow on the high peaks. Every whistle on the wind jerked at his attention, forcing him to a halt as he strained to listen for a distress call. Connor had returned two days later, unharmed and buoyant with his successful first run.

The tight knot of concern eased a little more with each trip Connor took alone. Hank couldn’t deny he was skilled at traversing the mountain paths. He’d seen Connor rock climb in his free time. He told himself he was watching because it was impressive. It had nothing to do with Connor’s contracting muscles or the way he was able to ascend mountain slopes like a graceful gazelle. He’d seen Connor brace his spiked feet against the sheer face of mountain rock and leap vertically to grab a ledge. Hank’s heart had stopped as Connor hung midair and didn’t start beating again until Connor’s feet were planted on solid ground.

In the end, though, everybody has an injury with their name on it. Connor’s had come in the form of a collapsing stack of firewood. He hadn’t been rushing or taking unnecessary risks. It had just been pure bad luck.

Hank squeezes him without thinking and Connor presses his face into the shoulder of Hank’s thick winter coat. He’s not crying, the pain is beyond that, but he’s still convulsing as random stabs of agony lance through his hand. High-pitched howls of suffering reverberate up Connor’s spine and bleed out through his clenched teeth.

Hank holds him until the worst of it subsides. His hand rubs at Connor’s back, trying to offer comfort any way he can. Connor’s stiffness relaxes a few small but significant degrees.

“I’m ok,” he huffs our shakily and Hank isn’t sure which of them Connor’s trying to fool more.

“The hell you are,” Hank’s tone is kinder than his words and Connor doesn’t hackle at them. “Let’s get you inside. It’s gonna be a while before I can get you down the mountain to a doctor.”

Connor’s eyes scan the single path up to their quiet cabin. It’s covered in a thick layer of fresh powder and the cold snap isn’t likely to pass just to make his life easier.

He nods and starts back toward the small dwelling while cradling his hand to his chest like it’s a defenseless baby bird. It’s a longer walk than Hank would care for with Connor in this condition, but he plows on ahead without complaining. Hank drags the sled Connor had brought, heavy with wood. At least the trip wasn’t a total loss.

By the time they reach the cabin, bright red hectic spots have bloomed across Connor’s cheeks. He’s sweating despite the cold and Hank knows it’s from the pain. The second Hank gets the door open for him, Connor beelines for the shelf above the microwave, yanking a cork from a bottle of amber liquid with his teeth before swallowing two thick mouthfuls.

Connor comes away spluttering, but Hank holds his tongue. He’s not done putting the kid through pain yet and who is Hank to begrudge him some whiskey? Connor knows it, too, judging by his sullen demeanor. He stomps over to the fire, prodding it higher with his good but clumsy left hand.

Hank fishes an ice pack out of the freezer and tosses it to him, “I know you’re trying to warm up, but keep ice on it. We don’t want it to swell any worse.” Hank hunts down his medical kit, which, under normal circumstances, was more robust than most. Even so, there was only so much Hank could do about broken bones.

He’s as gentle as he can be when Connor holds out his hand in silence, not watching as Hank splints it. Connor gasps sharp sounds that slice at Hank’s throat a few times and a tremor rips through him when Hank applies the splint. He swallows down the anti-inflammatories and the strongest pain medication a person can buy without a prescription that Hank hands him in silent gratitude.

Hank stirs at some stew simmering over the fire. Connor had laughed and accused him of being a wicked witch when he’d first seen the near-medieval setup. He’s not laughing anymore and eats in silence. By the end, he’s holding the bowl with one hand and sipping at it. He’d spilled more than one mouthful on himself with his uncoordinated left hand and he’s had enough.

Shirt splattered with grey-brown stew, Connor pushes away from the table exhausted, “I’m done with today. I’m going to bed.”

Hank nods and watches Connor disappear into the Jack-and-Jill bathroom that separated the main room from Hank’s bedroom. The cabin was small and not really meant for more than one person. Hank and Connor had made do by tacking up blankets and sectioning off a portion of the main room for Connor to sleep in relative privacy.

He nods at Hank before slipping through the makeshift walls. Killing the lights, Hank’s halfway through brushing his teeth when a loud, heavy thud echoes from the front room only to be muffled by Connor bellowing, “ _SON OF A BITCH!_ ”

Hank fumbles for the light switch and has to try his absolute hardest not to laugh at the scene before him. He’d forgotten Connor folded up his cot every morning. Rather than ask for help, he’d attempted to bend the metal legs into place one-handed. He had somehow managed to tear down his blanket walls and send the cot flying. Hank’s best guess was Connor had been using his legs to attempt to force the cot into place.

His small smile droops into a frown when he sees Connor doubled over his hand.

“Boy, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Connor jerks at the admonition and Hank has to reel in his temper. “Let me have a look.”

Connor extends his arm and Hank handles it with as much care as his big hands can manage. Connor’s fingers look impossibly fragile bracketed against his own.

“Just knocked it a bit,” Hank mumbles and Connor’s shoulders sag in relief until his eyes land on the mangled cot.

He groans and drops his face into his good hand as if covering his eyes will make it all go away. Hank’s gaze tracks to where Connor had been looking and he sighs. Reaching under Connor’s armpits, he hauls him to his feet.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, nudging Connor toward his bedroom. Connor’s legs move with confused, locked knees and Hank huffs, “Bed’s big enough for the both of us. Move it before I change my mind.”

Not relishing the thought of sleeping on the ground, Connor hurries into the dark room with his throbbing hand pressed tight to his chest. Hank shoos Connor into the bed before easing his weight onto the mattress. The springs groan under the unexpected additional weight. He’s about to pull the blankets up to his nose when a telltale groan rattles and splutters through the house.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Hank growls into the night air, already feeling heat leech out of the room.

“The genny’s out of juice,” Connor says quietly.

He falls into a distressed silence when Hank snaps, “I know.” It had been one of many smaller tasks that hadn’t gotten done in time. He hadn’t needed the generator in the decade since he’d moved to the mountain.

Hank throws back the covers and stomps out to poke and prod at the furnace before giving it up as a lost cause. Striking a flint at the small fireplace in his bedroom, Hank grumbles, “This is some fuck ass murphy’s law bullshit.”

Connor huffs out a quiet chuckle and it soothes Hank’s frazzled nerves a bit. It’s good to hear him laugh despite the pain he’s in. It doesn’t take him long to get a fire going and he collapses wearily back into bed. Connor bounces slightly from the power behind it and Hank is forcibly reminded of how much smaller Connor is than him. He blushes for absolutely no reason and rolls with ill grace so his back is facing Connor.

The fire crackles warmth over his face and he’s nearly asleep with a vicious shiver startles him awake. His eyes blink open, confused. It hadn’t been him.

Connor’s voice quivers as another tremble ripples through him, “Sorry. Cold.”

Hank breathes in audibly before exhaling his frustration. It’s been a long day; neither of them needs the night to stretch out into an eternity.

Once more, Hank heaves himself out of his bed, “Move. Out.” Connor complies slowly, warily, as if afraid Hank’s going to make him sleep on the floor after all.

Hank rummages around in his dresser drawers until he finds a thick, fleece-lined sweater. He hands it to Connor who tries his best to shimmy into it without disturbing his injury. It’s huge on him and the sleeves threaten to swallow his hands to his fingertips. It slumps at one shoulder and the moonlight further illuminates a pale slice of Connor’s exposed clavicle.

Grunting a sound that has no real meaning, he turns back to his bed. Hank eases himself back into it before motioning at Connor to join him once more, “You’ll be closer to the fire this way. I’ve got at least fifty pounds on you. I’ll be fine.”

Connor snorts and mutters, “Oh, you do not,” but he darts under the covers as if Jack Frost is biting at his heels. Even with the fire, Hank has to admit the room’s temperature is hardly above bearable. Connor doesn’t complain but his gentle shivering gives him away.

“Are you going to be ok?” Hank mumbles into the dark, not sure what else he can offer the kid.

He senses Connor’s shrug, “Just cold.”

 _Body heat_ , Hank’s mind whispers at him, equal parts nurturing and traitorous.

He’d long stopped pretending he didn’t find Connor attractive. Now is just _really_ not the time for his brain to remind him. Hoping Connor can’t see his flush in the dark, Hank lifts one arm in a welcoming gesture. Connor turns his head to peer at him in confusion before he sees the empty pocket Hank’s created for him to cocoon into.

“Are you sure?” Connor isn’t a stupid man. He knows Hank watches him. He also knows Hank isn’t ready to deal with his feelings. Yet.

“Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t,” Hank grumbles. His eyes go a bit wide when Connor rolls to face him rather than scooting back.

He lifts his injured hand in explanation, “I can’t lie on it.”

Hank grunts and Connor lets his arm rest on Hank’s chest, keeping it elevated. It’s the explanation Hank gives himself anyway for why Connor’s touching him like this. It’s easier to fall asleep than he expected. It’s been years since he’s had anyone in his bed. Connor’s body radiates warmth like his own personal heater and waves of it lull him to sleep.

When he wakes up, the sun isn’t fully in the sky yet. Dim morning light filters through his curtained windows. Connor’s hand is still on his chest, but his head is tucked further up Hank’s chest, pressing under his chin. Hank’s fingers twitch and his face turns a violent shade of red when he realizes he’s wrapped Connor in an embrace.

When his heart stops trying to jackhammer out of his chest, he allows himself to admit: _This is nice_.

He lies still, listening to the non-migratory birds chirping, soaking in Connor’s warmth before facing the cold outside of his bed. It’s likely going to be a painfully protracted day of working their way down the mountain. Connor needs a doctor whether the mountain pass wants to cooperate or not.

He needs to put chains on his tires, load the truck up with equipment to clear snow, ice, and possibly downed trees, as well as pack an emergency kit in the event they have the worst luck in the world and get stuck on their way into town.

A list of numerous, unpleasant tasks generates in his mind, but he pushes it aside for now. He lets himself enjoy this quiet, peaceful moment, shoring up his resolve to finally tell Connor all the things he’s been locking away. It had been too easy to hold Connor in his arms, too good, to let go of now.

His heart constricts when Connor rolls a shoulder in presage of waking. Sleep-heavy brown eyes blink open tiredly before Connor rises on his good arm. He looks down at Hank with a soft expression on his face. He is the single most beautiful man Hank has ever seen. He’s in Hank’s bed. He’s looking at Hank like he’s a gift beyond measure and his aching hand still rests on Hank’s chest.

He wants to touch him. He wants to crack open his chest to reveal the throbbing truth of his heart. Emotions roll like a stormy sea in his throat and all Hank can muster is, “Good morning.”

Connor’s lips curve at either end and Hank knows Connor’s sussed him out. He doesn’t push. He’s been patient this far. He can stand to wait a little longer and let Hank come to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake/).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter is hard on Connor’s knuckle. It had healed as well as he could’ve hoped for, but damage is damage. He feels a bit like Humpty Dumpty. But he hadn’t needed the king’s men or horses; in the end, Hank’s gentle care had been enough to put him back together, more or less. To be fair, it was just one finger, but in their line of work, one mangled digit was enough to end a career.
> 
> Hank stomps into the warm cabin as if on cue, shaking his shaggy hair to rid it of snowflakes. A long, plush scarf obscures his mouth and nose. Connor can’t keep the grin from his face; he’d knitted it for Hank as a means to pass the slow winter evenings. He’d dropped a stitch on accident and the scarf abruptly became one loop short halfway through it, but Hank didn’t seem to mind. He wore it anytime he went outdoors to brave the wintry weather. 
> 
> \--
> 
> A peek at how these mountain men pass the time on lazy winter days. Hint: It's gremlin.

Winter is hard on Connor’s knuckle. It had healed as well as he could’ve hoped for, but damage is damage. He feels a bit like Humpty Dumpty. But he hadn’t needed the king’s men or horses; in the end, Hank’s gentle care had been enough to put him back together, more or less. To be fair, it was just one finger, but in their line of work, one mangled digit was enough to end a career.

Hank stomps into the warm cabin as if on cue, shaking his shaggy hair to rid it of snowflakes. A long, plush scarf obscures his mouth and nose. Connor can’t keep the grin from his face; he’d knitted it for Hank as a means to pass the slow winter evenings. He’d dropped a stitch on accident and the scarf abruptly became one loop short halfway through it, but Hank didn’t seem to mind. He wore it anytime he went outdoors to brave the wintry weather.

The cabin was small and Hank often complained it was too tight for two grown men and, now, a huge, furry dog, but Connor liked to think of it more as cozy. It only takes him a few strides to meet Hank at the door and he tugs the scarf down to see Hank’s face.

“Hi,” he breathes the word into the scant space between them. It’s the only warning Hank gets before Connor is on him, molding against Hank despite his thick coat.

When Connor finally surfaces for air, Hank’s face is flushed and he grumbles, “Missed you, too.”

It hadn’t been a long hike, but the cabin was a lonesome place whenever they had to do solo trips. Hank used to value his solitude. Now, he found it uncomfortable. For Connor, the feeling was mutual.

“How was this batch of intrepid explorers?” Connor calls over his shoulder as he moves to put the kettle on for tea. Hank snorts at him in answer. Connor knows better than anyone that the people who sign up for these hikes are often way out of their league.

“Made it to the top this time,” Hank concedes. “This group wasn’t too bad. Only one whiner, but his boyfriend shut him up pretty fast. I think he was his boyfriend anyway.”

Connor shoots him a questioning look and Hank shrugs, “Only couples act that familiar with each other, but I’m not too certain they liked each other all that much.”

“Oh?” Connor asks while rising to tiptoe to snatch the tea container from the top shelf. Hank falls silent for a moment, watching Connor’s shirt rise to expose a sliver of abdomen.

Hank clears his throat before Connor can catch him watching. He could keep the tea on an easier to reach shelf, he knows. He sees no reason to change up the pantry, though. Not with views like this.

He gives his head a shake. Gone two days and already acting like a randy bastard.

“The tall one kept calling the other by his last name. Reed, as I recall. Reed referred to the tall one as ‘Toaster’ the entire time.” Connor chuckles and Hank shrugs, “To each their own, I guess. Anyway, they made it to the top on schedule.”

The kettle whistles its discomfort and Connor moves it to another burner while setting up mugs, honey, and tea bags. Carrying them carefully by the handle, Connor presses the steaming cup into Hank’s hands.

“What’s with the _kept man_ routine?” Hank eyes the mug and then Connor’s less-nimble-than-they-used-to-be fingers unwinding his scarf for him.

Keeping his eyes carefully on Hank’s throat, Connor murmurs, “My next hike canceled. Storm’s coming. We have the entire week to ourselves.”

Heat blossoms across every inch of Hank’s considerable body. He knows that tone. Connor is going to be the death of him, he is sure. Still, dying of a sextravaganza was a hell of a way to go. There never seemed to be a slow season for them, but winter was usually less hectic. This year had proven to be busier than most and they were both feeling the itch. Often too tired from struggling uphill against bitter winds, they could do little more than collapse into bed and let sleep have her way with them.

As alluring as the idea sounds, Hank needs a raincheck until at least tomorrow. Taking a gulp of tea, he tries to figure out a way to appease the hungry beast staring out of Connor’s eyes until then.

“Sounds like a great way to start the week. No work and all play,” he tries to lay the foundation, but Connor isn’t having any of it. His eyes glow like enflamed coals as his fingers drift to disappear in Hank’s snow pants. Hank hisses when tea-warmed fingers grip around his fattening cock.

Before he can protest, Connor presses a kiss to the corner of Hank’s mouth, “Drink your tea, Hank.” Connor’s fingers give Hank’s rapidly awakening erection a teasing little squeeze before turning his attention to his own mug. Connor knows Hank is tired. He doesn’t expect much out of him until he’s slept, eaten, and showered. Still, he _wants_ and Connor tends to get his way in the end.

Gulping his tea in three swallows, Hank retreats to the bathroom. Slim fingers wind around his waist and warm lips press to the back of Hank’s neck as the big man brushes his teeth. They move against the sensitive skin there like a promise, “Let’s go to bed.”

Bed sounds like heaven and Hank takes no convincing. Flopping face-first onto the mattress, he grunts when Connor pushes at him, urging him to lie on his back. Looking back on it, he should’ve known Connor was up to something. How was he to anticipate that the _something_ was trying to suck the life out of him through his cock?

“Connor,” Hank says his name in warning the second Connor works open the buttons of Hank’s pajama bottoms. Connor’s breath washes over his soft shaft and Hank’s dick twitches in interest. Connor runs the flat of his tongue along it in a broad stripe, grinning as it starts to harden to a familiar girth.

Hank’s fingers fist in Connor’s hair, trying to keep him from devouring his cock in one go, “Connor, I’m serious. I need sleep.”

“Then go to sleep,” Connor says it simply before sucking the tip of Hank’s cock between his lips.

“Connor,” Hank groans, trying to pull him off his dick. Hank’s pretty certain Connor’s lips could give a boa constrictor a run for its money given how tightly they’re wrapped around Hank’s shaft.

Connor relents but only to issue a demand, “I want your cock in my mouth.” In the darkness of their bedroom, Connor’s eyes look black, sensual, and defiant. It’s not hard to give him what he wants.

Sleep isn’t really possible like this. It feels too nice, but warm tendrils of exhaustion creep over his eyelids and Hank drifts into that in-between space of consciousness and oblivion. The heat intensifies and Connor hums a low, feral sound. A sigh creeps up Hank’s neck unbidden. It’s a warning Hank doesn’t recognize in his sleepy state, but Connor doubles down at the sound. His throat spasms around the tip of Hank’s dick and his subsequent orgasm only surprises one of them.

Connor doesn’t release Hank’s cock until it’s too soft to hold comfortably in his mouth. It falls with a wet slap and Hank fumbles it back inside his pajamas.

“What about you?” Hank asks drowsily, well aware he has maybe a minute before he passes out.

“You’ll owe me. Tomorrow,” Connor clarifies then grins. “Make it count.”

Hank thinks he laughs because the sound of it chases him around in his dreams. He doesn’t remember them come morning, but they must’ve been good ones judging by the smile on his face.

Watching Connor sip at a mug of coffee, Hank can’t help the pulse of fondness. They’d come a long way since last winter. Connor had been patient with him, easing him into the relationship increments at a time. Now that they’d permeated nearly every barrier Hank possessed, Connor had shed his patient demeanor like an old coat.

He still gives Hank space when he needs it. Some things would always be raw, but for the most part, Connor couldn’t keep his hands off Hank. It was flattering and did unnatural things to Hank’s ego. Thinking back to their first tentative, shy kiss, Hank snorts.

Connor looks up at the sound, a touch defensive, “What?” He has one, long leg dangling over the arm of the sofa. He never sits like a civilized human being, but Hank doesn’t mind.

“Just thinking,” Hank holds up his palms, showing he meant nothing by it.

Connor relaxes and takes the bait, “Thinking about what?”

Hank pours himself a generous helping of strong caffeine as he replies, “First time we kissed.”

The memory always made him warm, like comfort food for the soul. Glancing at Connor, he imagines Connor feels much the same.

It had been after their trip to town for Connor’s broken finger. Hank’s resolve to confess his feelings had wavered in the face of x-rays, prescriptions, and general hospital sterility. The ride back had been awkward and silent. The painkiller the doctor had given Connor was starting to wear off and his discomfort was returning in steady increments. Hank’s feelings crowded around him and he hunched away from them against the glass of his door window.

Once in the familiar security of his house, Hank unwound by a few degrees. Taking out various bottles, Hank held out a tiny pill in the center of his huge palm, “Take it. It’ll help with the pain.”

Connor swallowed it immediately and then glared at the broken finger. Hank knew Connor’s anger was masking his concern. He couldn’t work until it healed. Hank would have to manage the hikes alone. It wasn’t as huge a concern to Hank. He’d managed several seasons by himself on this mountain. It was easier with Connor, but not insurmountable alone.

He found Connor glowering glumly at his injured hand when he returned from his first solo trip that should have been the both of them. Sitting next to him on the couch, Hank eased the battered hand into his own. He peered at it, looking for signs of infection.

“How’s it feel today?” He glanced up to see Connor staring at him with open interest. There had been several of these moments. Each time, Hank told himself to stop being a wimp and just tell Connor how he felt. Each time, his mouth refused to comply. At this proximity, Hank didn’t have anywhere to hide.

“Same as usual. It hurts a lot.” Connor’s fingers twitched in Hank’s grip and he winced.

Hank hadn’t intended for this to be his moment, he hadn’t thought it through, reacting on instinct. Raising Connor’s injured hand to his lips, he’d pressed a gentle kiss just above the knuckle. There was something princely about the gesture and it left both men breathing hard.

Connor’s shocked stare morphed into something more like amusement and Hank released his hand, “What?”

Connor arched one eyebrow, “You call _that_ a kiss?”

Hank had wanted to run outside and bury his burning face in the snow. Connor’s good hand on his cheek stitched him to the couch as if the material itself wanted Hank to stay.

“Here,” Connor’s voice had pitched low, soft, and inviting. “Let me show you.” He didn’t pull, instead opting to lean forward into Hank’s space. Hank met him to close the distance. Connor’s lips were soft and a small freckle hid inside the curve of his cupid’s bow. He tasted how a hot summer breeze felt. It threatened to consume him and he nearly sighed in relief when Connor pulled away.

If kissing Connor had that much of an effect on him, he was certain touching him, fucking him, would spell his demise. It hadn’t, of course. Hank’s heart had done its level best to explode out of his chest the first time he took Connor to bed, but Connor’s palm had held it in place.

A quiet laugh pulls Hank out of his reverie and he looks down at the considerable bulge in his pajama pants. He takes a long pull of his coffee, ignoring Connor’s smirk.

When Connor’s grin doesn’t let up, Hank grumbles, “You better check your face before I go pop a pill and rail you into the afterlife.” Hank hadn’t cared for the all-too-humiliating reminder that he was getting older. His dick hadn’t failed him yet, but it took an obnoxious amount of time to get it up every now and then.

It had taken some convincing from Connor, but the first time Hank had taken one of those little pills, he wondered where the hell they’d been his entire life. He was getting boners left and right. Connor was more than a little tired by the end of the first night Hank took one and wondered if he could survive a supercharged Anderson cock more than once. He’d acclimated fine, thankfully.

They started saving them for special occasions or the rare free weekend after the wonder wore off. Hank didn’t much enjoy feeling like a horny teenager for hours on end when they had work to do or were otherwise unable to fuck like rabbits.

Connor grins like Hank issued a challenge, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Hank attempts a scowl, but his twitching lips ruin the effect, “Let a man get some breakfast first.” Connor nods magnanimously and Hank snorts, “Thank you, your majesty.”

Sumo huffs at them from the floor and lumbers to his feet when Connor makes a grab for his leash.

“I’ll walk him. You eat. You’ll need your strength,” Connor waggles his eyebrows suggestively, pecking Hank on the cheek.

Hank hadn’t been sold on the idea of a dog at first. They were a huge responsibility and Hank was still trying to get over his wary hesitance of commitment at the time. First Connor and now a dog?

“I dunno, Con. We’re away a lot.” Hank had tried to use their job as an excuse, but Connor lobbed that argument right back at him.

“Jeff would watch him for us,” Connor muttered from their bed, perusing pictures on adoption websites.

“Him?” Hank asked, trying to diffuse the situation before he lost control of it.

“Mhm,” Connor hummed back, pointing at a giant ball of fur on the screen. “His name is Sumo. Isn’t he handsome?”

“Connor,” Hank had groaned, drawing out the ‘r’. “Why do you want a dog?”

Connor’s eyes were back on the screen, but Hank could see him wilt, “I get lonely when you’re gone.” He was doomed. There was no coming back from that argument. “And besides,” Connor closed the lid before rolling to his knees. He tugged Hank closer as if to share a secret, “I like dogs.” He sealed their fate with a kiss and the giant Saint Bernard came home the next week.

The cabin was small and growing smaller by the day as Sumo double then tripled his size. Hank liked the dog well enough, but he earned his keep when Hank had returned from a trek to find a new front door and a very pale Connor.

“What happened?” It didn’t take a genius to know something unpleasant had gone down. Connor told him in fits and starts. There had been an angry knock at the door, which was unusual in and of itself. No one came all the way out to the cabin unannounced. Sumo’s low, warning growl had been enough to make Connor wary.

“They tried to get in—forced the door. There was no time to get the shotgun and—I think they were high. They were definitely out of it. One of them came at me and Sumo nearly tore off his arm. They scarpered after that.” Connor eyed the new door, a little shaken but unharmed.

Hank cooked Sumo a special steak that night, mumbling _good dog_ as he wolfed it down.

By the time Connor returns with Sumo from the walk, Hank’s belly is full and his mind had drifted to more pleasant memories of the night before. Connor had a gift for sucking cock and Hank often told him as much. Hank could get the job done if he was so inclined to return the favor, but his talents lied in other areas of the bedroom. Now that they had empty days stretching ahead of them, Hank intended to take Connor apart. He decides to take a pill after all.

Hank may be shy when it comes to his emotions and sharing his feelings, but he had no such qualms in the bedroom. It had been a while since he’d had anyone in his bed, but he’d yet to leave a lover unsatisfied. A ravenous animal took over his brain the first time he saw Connor naked and he’d left the man breathless and dazed by the end.

Facedown in the mattress, Connor had murmured, “I could get addicted to you.” Hank’s inner peacock had preened and strutted around the room.

“I know that look,” Connor chuckles as he hangs up his coat and Sumo’s leash. Hank’s hands snake around Connor’s waist from behind, thick fingers working buttons through shirt holes. Connor leans against him, content to let Hank undress him in their living room. Sumo huffs an annoyed doggy sound at his lack of treat before circling around his usual spot in front of the fire.

“Bedroom?” Connor sighs as Hank exposes one pale, freckled shoulder.

Hank’s teeth nip at the naked skin before he rumbles, “Shower.” Connor shrugs, a touch of impatience in the motion.

“We have all morning,” Hank voice comes out quiet against Connor’s ear, laced heavily with promise. “All afternoon and evening, too.” His fingers dip into Connor’s waistband and he tugs him in the direction of the bathroom.

Hank says nothing as Connor struggles with the faucet. His finger is stiffer than usual during the winter, but he doesn’t take kindly to what he refers to as _Hank’s coddling_. It isn’t hard to explain so much as it’s impossible to speak the words still. He doesn’t want Connor to struggle or be in pain. He wants to take care of him, to always be there for him. Thoughts like that leave him winded and panicky when he follows them to their obvious conclusion so he sets them aside for now.

Much like the rest of the cabin, the shower is small. It’s a tight fit when they both use it at the same time, but it’s manageable. Hank’s stomach slips and slides against the curve of Connor’s spine when he reaches around him for soap.

Water streams down Connor’s back in little rivulets, tracing twin shoulder blades before sloping down the curve of his ass. Sudsy fingers press into the taut muscles and tendons along Connor’s shoulders, pulling a groan from his narrow chest. Connor grunts in surprise when Hank gives his cock a soapy tug.

“Gotta make sure all of you is clean,” Hank teases, running a rag between Connor’s cheeks next.

Connor flushes and yanks the rag from Hank with a flustered, “I can do that myself, thanks.” Hank lets him handle the washcloth, but he doesn’t stop his casual perusal of Connor’s body. He runs the tip of his forefinger between freckles until he reaches the nape of Connor’s neck. Connor tips his head forward as Hank’s finger bury into the dark locks.

His hair is a little overgrown, but Hank doesn’t mind. It makes it easier to grab and Connor’s reaction to Hank fisting his hair never fails to disappoint. He rubs at Connor’s scalp, soaking in the quiet contentment. He isn’t looking to rile Connor up just yet. It’s nice to not be in a hurry for once.

Connor turns to face him, looping his arms around the thick trunk of Hank’s waist. He tilts his head back into the stream, closing his eyes.

“That’s cheating,” Hank grumbles, eying the long slope of Connor’s throat. Connor knows Hank likes to bite and mouth dark marks onto his pale skin. Hank wasn’t often overtly possessive, but Connor knows Hank would guard him like a dragon keeping watch over its treasure if he sensed a threat. During the winter, when Connor’s body was largely concealed by bulky outdoor gear, Hank could lay claim to him without worrying about propriety.

It had been a while since they’d done more than brush lips in a goodnight kiss and all the old marks had faded into near-nonexistence. He’d have to do something about that.

Connor breaks the loop of his arms to run his fingers up one side of his neck and Hank growls at him in warning, “I wouldn’t be such a tease if I were you. I’m still inclined to play nice.” He squeezes at the flesh of Connor’s lower buttocks.

Heedless of the consequences, Connor wafts his hand in the steamy air, “Maybe I want you to be _mean_.” He rights his head and opens his eyes on the final word and Hank isn’t surprised to see lust lurking in Connor’s gaze.

He rumbles a wordless sound as he reaches to shut off the shower. To hell with not riling Connor up too soon. He wants him face down, ass up, and begging for it _right now_. Connor’s hips rut against his and he bites back a dark hiss.

This was his only qualm about the little blue pills. He felt like a wild animal scenting out a mate when it first kicked in. It evened out eventually, but until then, he was a hulking brute ready to toss Connor onto the ground and fuck a Connor-shaped hole into the floor. Connor never seemed to care, but Hank has something more prolonged in mind.

And besides, Connor had asked him to be mean.

He’d remembered to stroke the fire before the shower and their room is approaching tropical temperatures. He doesn’t intend for either of them to leave this room or get dressed for at least the next several hours. It would be stifling in a robe, but it’s pleasant on naked skin.

Water drips from the ends of Connor’s hair as it starts to curl in the humid room. He shakes it wetly like a dog and Hank gooses him before handing him a towel. With his arms overhead, Hank has to resist the urge to pin Connor to the wall and devour him. His dick strains painfully, but he ignores it and continues watching in silence.

Connor’s body was a study in contrasts compared to Hank’s. He was trim in the hips with long, lithe limbs. Hank was broad, barrel-chested, and boasted more body hair than a bear. By the time Connor finished toweling off, Hank’s on the verge of losing his careful control. Memories of the night before, of the warm heat of Connor’s mouth on his cock, makes his dick dribble in anticipation.

Hank isn’t the only one staring and Connor’s gaze is glued to his cock. He hadn’t ever taken a measuring tape to his dick, but he knows this is one area of his body that always impressed. The little pill didn’t make him any bigger, heaven knows he doesn’t need any extra length or girth, but they did make him impossibly hard.

He intends to deliver punishing pleasure before lunchtime and maybe again before dinner depending on how long the effects last. It would take him out of commission for a day or so, but he liked the filthy, debauched sounds Connor made on round two. The feral animal currently steering his dick purred in anticipation.

Connor drifts nearer as if in a trance. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and Hank knows Connor wants to blow him again. A mental image pops in unbidden of bucking down Connor’s throat, but he pushes it away. He jerks sharply when Connor’s fingers wrap around the shaft as if testing Hank’s girth.

“You always look bigger in daylight,” he murmurs as he swirls his thumb around the leaking slit. His fingers stroke down the length of it, bulging around the slightly thicker middle. “I don’t know how you get it to fit.” Hank would laugh if Connor’s gentle touch wasn’t currently consuming the majority of his focus.

Connor’s gaze goes half-lidded as he watches his hand stroke the object consuming his attention, “I bet it looks obscene when I blow you, lips stretched wide.” He sinks to his knees, pressing his face to Hank’s thigh, his mouth inches away from Hank’s shaft. “Or fucking me. I bet that’s a sight.”

Hank pulls Connor to his feet with a rumbled, “You’re not getting it that easy. On the bed.”

Connor grins, “Oh? Decided to be mean after all?”

Hank grunts an affirmative and Connor melts onto the mattress. Hank grips him by the ankle, bodily flipping him over, “On your knees.” Connor’s hips rise as he shimmies into place. His head rests on his folded arms as his feet dangle over the edge of the mattress.

Hank snags a pillow for his knees trying to decide where to begin. With Connor spread before him, the options are tantalizing. He starts with Connor’s inner thigh, pressing a kiss to it before tugging the skin between his teeth.

Connor hisses and Hank grins as he mutters, “Mine.” It earns him a laugh and Connor relaxes against the bedding. Hank wasn’t big on inflicting pain, but he wasn’t above leaving reminders of his regard on Connor’s body. It was easier to show his affection than speak it.

When Hank grips each cheek and pulls, Connor exhales a pleased _oh_. He moans a much louder _oH!_ when Hank’s tongue traces a broad circle around Connor’s tightly coiled rim. His tongue dances tantalizingly along the edge of it, never quite moving into range. Connor’s hips begin to writhe and he groans an explicative when Hank swirls around his hole still leaving it untouched.

“This is not,” Connor pants, each word heavy with arousal, “what I meant by _mean_.”

Hank grins then runs his tongue along the stretch of skin between Connor’s hole and his balls. He leaves them untouched for now as well and he murmurs darkly, “Too bad.”

Connor’s on the verge of protest when Hank finally drags his tongue over Connor’s sensitive rim. Connor groans at the gentle first brush and bucks back as if he means to fuck himself onto Hank’s tongue. Hank grips his hips like a vice. Connor tries to wriggle before he gets the message; he can only have what Hank is willing to give him.

It is going to be a long morning. A protracted, perfect morning.

By the time Connor’s thighs are trembling, Hank can feel the feverish demand for flesh moderate into something more manageable. He could take small nibbles of Connor without worrying about biting out huge chunks on accident. He wanted to take his time, to drench Connor in careful attention. To show him he is loved.

Connor’s fingers twist in the bedding, wrinkling it under damp palms. His back glistens with sweat from Hank’s constant assault on his hole. His tongue lashes in figure eights and crisscrosses before completing one mean drag along the entire rim.

Delirious with need, Connor’s hips nearly collapse to rut against the bed when Hank sinks in one thick, oiled finger. Twisting and caressing, he knows he’s made his mark when Connor cries out his name. He works the spot mercilessly, his tongue still toying along the edges of Connor’s hole stretched around his finger.

Time ceases to be a binding construct. He doesn’t tire or feel hunger other than the burning arousal in his gut demanding more. He adds a second finger, stretching and teasing as he milks the tight bundle making Connor mewl with pleasure.

The first time Connor begs is always the sweetest, “Hank, please. I need you, _now_.” Connor’s dick curves upward, untouched and aching for release.

 _Not yet_.

“It’s cute,” Hank says the words between kisses to each of Connor’s ass cheeks, “that you think I’m even close to being done with you.” Connor groans into the bedding and it’s a mix of arousal and annoyance. He turns with interest when he hears the bedside drawer drag open.

They have a modest toy collection and Connor’s curious to see what Hank intends to use. Hank didn’t often bother with toys, preferring to manipulate Connor himself. They were mostly there for Connor whenever Hank was away on long hikes.

His head falls with a thump to the mattress when Hank produces a pouch, “Oh, goddammit.”

“Don’t want you popping off early,” Hank says with a sly grin, sliding a ring down to the base of Connor’s throbbing dick. Connor groans louder when he slips a second around his balls.

“You’re evil,” his words come out muffled through the bedding.

Hank presses his slicked fingers back into Connor’s hole, working his prostate like a knotted muscle he means to unravel.

“Not evil,” Hank replies cheerfully. “Just mean.”

He won’t keep Connor like this for long despite his earlier assertions. He can’t help himself. It takes several minutes of additional probing, tonguing, and stroking before Connor’s will crumples.

“Hank,” he can hear the plea in his tone. He won’t make him beg again.

He shushes him, “I know. I’ll take care of you.” Connor’s entire body sags when Hank pulls the rings free. His body is limper and easier to manipulate than cooked pasta. He rolls him to his back; he wants to see his face. Connor hadn’t been far off the mark about what he looked like impaled on Hank’s cock. There was a definite appeal to seeing Connor’s body take him, but he likes watching Connor’s expression more.

Some of the frantic need drains from his features when the blunt head of Hank’s cock presses against his loose hole. His mouth droops further down with each added inch and a strangled sound gurgles in his chest when the meatiest part of Hank’s shaft slides home. The moment he drags over Connor’s prostate, he whimpers.

He rocks into him slowly, dragging at an angle that drives Connor wild. He isn’t going to last long, not after taking Connor apart for the better part of the morning. Connor’s heels dig in when Hank reaches between them to stroke him in time with his thrusts.

“Hank. I’m…I’m gonna—” Connor tries to speak a warning when Hank cuts him off with a roar. Heat races up his shaft before exploding into Connor. The final spurts of it pump weakly when Connor spills over Hank’s fist, Hank’s name on his lips. Hank’s release oozes wetly around his softening cock, but he doesn’t want to move yet. He drops heavily, bonelessly onto Connor, pulling an _oof_ from him.

“Hank,” Connor’s lips move against Hank’s shoulder in a facsimile of a kiss. When Hank doesn’t reply, Connor pokes him in the ribs, “Don’t you dare fall asleep on me.”

“Don’t wanna leave you yet. Feels nice. Joined.” Collapsed on Connor as he is, he doesn’t have to worry about Connor seeing his burning face.

“Aw, you love me,” Connor mumbles into Hank’s shoulder. It’s a joke, a throwaway comment as Connor’s brat energy restores itself in the afterglow.

Hank seizes it, “Well, you make it easy.” He knows it’s not quite the same as a confession of love, but it’s damn close. Fear grips his heart and holds it hostage. He moves to rise to his elbows to see Connor’s reaction when four limbs wrap around him like a squid.

Hank’s heart resumes beating when Connor whispers just to the side of his ear, “You make it easy, too.”

Glancing at the clock, 12:05 shines back at him. Hank eventually rolls off Connor to make a cursory attempt at cleaning up, but neither of them feels compelled to do more than the bare minimum. Connor’s body doesn’t seem to want to move of its own volition and he lets Hank haul him up the bed without complaint. A nap sounds good right about now.

Settling against Hank, Connor is forcibly reminded of the first night they spent together in this bed just like this—Connor’s back to the fire, injured hand resting on Hank’s belly.

Curiosity nibbles at him, “Hank?” He waits for the grunt to make sure Hank isn’t already asleep, “Do you think we’d be together if I hadn’t broken my finger?”

It’s a loaded question, heavy with implications of discussing emotions. He isn’t sure if Hank will sidestep it or not. He’s about to nudge him to see if he’s sleeping (pretend or otherwise) when Hank sighs.

“Never have been able to say no to you,” his voice is soft with fondness and sleep. He runs a thumb over the knuckle in question, feeling the slight protuberance that never fully went away.

“That’s not an answer,” Connor pushes his luck. He knows emotional confessions aren’t Hank’s cup of tea, but Hank would bog down in his comfort zone and never leave it if Connor didn’t prod him every now and then.

Connor traces the edges of Hank’s tattoo, listening to his pounding heart. It’s the only reason he knows he’s still awake.

When he speaks, his voice is choked as if his throat is trying to restrain the words, “I’ve been in love with you since the first time you tried to swing an ax.” He pauses for a beat, “You missed the log by a mile.”

Connor rankles a bit at the reminder of his early bumbling days on the mountain. He had a lot of experiencing climbing, but precious little when it came to preparing for winter.

“I swing an ax just fine,” he sniffs back, but Hank is unnaturally still beneath him. Connor’s heart taps on his brain to kick it square in the jaw. “Oh..OH!” He bolts up to find Hank staring resolutely in the other direction.

“It had nothing to do with your finger,” Hank mumbles to the wall. “It was just a matter of time.”

Hank keeps his eyes averted when Connor palms his cheek, “I would have waited. As long as it took.” He settles down, resting his head over Hank’s heart. The steady pulsing drags at his eyelids, urging him to sleep when he murmurs, “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/WorseMake/).


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